Mystification prevails stupefying yours truly

befuddled, he blindly stumbles along rocky

pathway illusory impediments strewn helter

skelter intangible obstructions hinder access

psychological barricades effective impasse

detains, deters, detours manhood maturation

manumission manifestation materialization

linkedin, when permanent submission arises

beckoning corporeal leaden entity into avast

eternal realm, where material disintegration

promises venerable salvation releasing angst

strummed plucked fretful existence denied

utmost exploration sequestered soul hermit

tickly sealed courtesy custom made NON-

GMO supercalifragilous expialidocious

airtight, vacuum sealed with trademarked

matts scott good housekeeping approval

lifetime achievement award maintaining

quasi pristine mint like condition afford

double (FREE for the taking) full refund

if dissatisfied with stutt...tut...tut tearing

functionality, yet batteries NOT required

and assembly unnecessary, but maximum

remaining life usage, asper garden variety

mutant requires preservation within sterile

bubble, lest exposure to human contact are

rouse dormant (latent) propensity breeding

biologically pre programmed predilection

to propagate species, this despite low libido

level, thus Memorial sale steal (actually no

expiration coincides with natural longevity)

slight depreciation before cessation arises,

which I project - little less than half life of

ordinary Earthling, whose quixotic, poetic,

ecologic, plus conscientious ethos promises

greater fulfillment, sans spirit, mind, and

body versus being addicted, hypnotized, or

tranquilized by latest technologic contraption.

About a month ago, I started having really odd dreams. I generally have always been alone in my dreams (except for the occasional vampire and once I had an animated dream starring the Flintstones…okay, that wasodd, but really funny). Anyway, about a month ago, I started having dreams that were full of people that talked to me, whose hands I could touch and feel, who had faces that I could draw, well, if I could draw. They lived in houses and apartments that I could remember when I woke up – the furniture, the smell, the landscape from a window. They had babies whose clothes I could describe, with chubby cheeks I kissed, and small warm bodies I held. Suddenly, my dreams had animals, dogs, cats, whose fur was soft (and didn’t make me sneeze) and who came so close to my face I could feel their warm breath on my lips.

After a couple of weeks, I didn’t have any particularly weird dreams for a while, at least, none that I remember, but everyday life seemed to become a bit less ordinary and a lot more should I get some professional help?A couple of times I was driving and suddenly the asphalt seemed to be buckling and sending up ribbons of road. I panicked and blinked and all was normal. Must have been the wind blowing up debris, I said to myself. Sun glare must have made it look weird…

Little stupid things I chalked up to mid-life hormones addling my brain started happening. I’d wash my hands, turn to dry them on the towel and then hear water, turn around and the faucet was still running. Duh, I’d think, turning off the water. I’d go to my room and after dressing, hear something in the bathroom, go back…and the water was still running. I thought I turned it off, I’d think…turning it off again. Similarly, I’d find the refrigerator door open, a flame blazing on the stove, the front door wide open and unlocked, the car running in the garage. The joys of aging, I’d say to myself, shaking my head as I turned off the flame, shut and locked the door, turned off the ignition…again and again.

The turning point appears to have been yesterday (or was it last week?) when I really could not explain away the moment when I was walking in the supermarket and fell forward into my wagon because someone bumped into my back but when I turned around to accept an apology, I was the only one in the aisle. Clumsy me I said out loud …although there was nothing on the floor and I had not tripped over my own feet.

When I turned back to my cart,I was no longer in the supermarket, but rather walking on the sand towards what appeared to be a hotel, watching sun bathers shift shape so quickly I nearly screamed. I will not scream, I told myself. I will not draw attention to the fissure in my psyche. I am obviously losing my mind. I will figure this out.When I opened the door to the building, I entered my home. I looked behind me, and saw my street.

“Hey, sweetheart,” my husband said, coming to hug me at the door. He stopped at the entrance to the foyer. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?” he said, walking towards me menacingly.

“What?” I asked…confused until I heard my deep, masculine voice. I turned and ran.

I have been on the street since then. I think. I haven’t slept, or perhaps I have not awakened. I often wonder if I died in my sleep and this is my afterlife. If it is, I’m certain heaven was not my destination. But if it’s hell, it seems almost worse than the fire and brimstone of the stories of my youth. Eternal…what? As the world beneath my feet shifts place – or is it time? – so too everything and everyone around me. I am surrounded by people who have become a multiplicity of beings, their faces ceasing to be recognizable as features are barely visible before they begin to melt into the features of another. It’s the stuff of horror movies or nightmares from which you awaken in a cold sweat, but try as I might, I can’t leave the theatre or pinch myself awake. I asked someone to pinch me not long ago, thinking I had to be dreaming. He did. It hurt.

I miss you like the ocean must miss the rain. I miss you like you’re a part of me that I’ve selflessly set free. I miss you like the ocean must miss the rain. Like the sky might feel such empathy that it lets my thoughts pull you from the clouds and back down into my arms. If only to let you go again. Ocean to rain.